


Mirage

by chatonne-rousse (thefullbeaumonty)



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Accidental Revelations, Adrinette | Adrien Agreste/Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Aged Up, F/M, Fantasy Sex, Identity Reveal, Ladrien | Adrien Agreste/Marinette Dupain-Cheng as Ladybug, Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug Identity Reveal, Masturbation, Maybe - Freeform, Pining, Shower Sex, shower masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:02:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25251319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefullbeaumonty/pseuds/chatonne-rousse
Summary: Warm shower, hot fantasy, startling revelation.
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug
Comments: 20
Kudos: 233





	Mirage

Sometimes he sings in the shower.

It’s cliché, but there’s no denying that it’s the perfect place to let go for a few minutes amidst the heat and steam. The drumming of water against the tile provides its own steady beat, and a Jagged Stone guitar riff leading to a catchy chorus is never difficult to imagine - and it’s far preferable to Chopin’s Prelude Number 15 in D flat major, the anthem of his adolescence that’s seared into his memory forever. Once in a while, if he sings a song his kwami recognizes, Plagg will harmonize with him from his usual perch atop the towel warmer, completely undisturbed that his holder is naked in the open shower a few feet away; there really are no secrets between them at this point, anyway. 

It’s one time when Adrien has no concerns about his father hearing him and having something to say. After all, that would require him to be close enough to speak to his own son, and he’s long since avoided that at all costs.

Sometimes he talks to himself.

He ponders different situations and the quick one-liner excuses he can use to escape his bodyguard when he needs to transform. He thinks up new puns and catalogues them in his memory bank to serve as a snappy retort in the face of an akuma’s threats or to purr to his Lady as he kisses her hand at the end of patrol. None of those suave and clever puns have worked in the past three years, but he hasn’t given up hope. Not yet. 

Besides, the nose boop and soft smile she gives him in return are a treat in and of themselves, especially when the trace of a light blush makes its way beneath her mask. What he wouldn’t give to see that blush on her unmasked face, open and free to be herself in his company. To love her and be loved in return - as civilians, as partners in _life_ \- is the deepest desire of his heart. 

Sometimes he just needs release.

He can’t recall a time when he stepped into the shower intending to get off, but he couldn’t possibly count the number of times it’s happened. There’s just something about the way the hot water pounds steadily against his back, his chest, his shoulders, the slippery feel of soap suds making their way over his torso and down his legs. The shackles of his forced solitude are a heavy weight to bear in the world beyond these tiled walls, but he’s never lonely here. This is time for him and him alone.

This evening he’s eager to hop in the shower, ready to wash off the smell of chlorine from his hair and body after several hours in the pool with his friends. It was a rare free summer afternoon and an even more rare outing approved by his father. It’s very possible that permission was granted because Nathalie didn’t mention that Nino would be there, but he refuses to dwell on it now. It was a wonderful day with no akumas and no worries, full of laughter and fun. 

He thinks of Nino’s lovestruck expression at seeing his longtime girlfriend in her orange bikini as she pulled off her coverup and Marinette’s adorable giggle when she nudged Alya in the ribs to draw her attention to Nino’s heart eyes. He can’t help but also remember how beautiful his friend looked in her own pink and white polka-dotted swimsuit, or the coordinating blush that rose to her face when he complimented it. Even now, as he turns on the rainfall shower, he can’t stop his gentle smile at the thought of her own sweet grin or the way his tense shoulder muscles relax under the hot water, just like they do in her presence. He is so lucky to have his friends, loyal and tenacious and unspeakably kind. Adrien allows himself a moment of complete, contented peace as he reaches for the luxury shampoo he’s used for years.

As he closes his eyes and lathers his hair, he’s suddenly taken with the image of sharing this shower, his partner in both superheroing and teenage fantasies his enthusiastic guest. He imagines his fingers sliding over slippery skin, kissing along a dewy wet jawline, his tongue trailing farther and farther down her neck and finding no supersuit to hinder his progress. His hands still for a moment in his hair as he takes a deep, shaky breath.

Oh, god _damn_. Thirty seconds of thinking of her, and he’s painfully hard. Couldn’t this have waited at least until he’d finished rinsing his hair?

He quickly rakes his fingers over his scalp as the water washes away the remaining shampoo. He imagines gently pulling Ladybug’s long dark hair from the jaunty high ponytail she’s worn for the past couple of years and letting it cascade across her shoulders. Tugging on her original pigtails had featured in many early dreams and fantasies, but his imagination has matured just as they have. Now, he sees his own strong hands working the lather through thick raven hair, then skimming his fingers down the curve of her back, following the path of the soap suds as they wash away. His cock twitches and he gasps aloud. _Damn_.

Even as his nerves come alive with desire, a new kind of contentment warms him from the inside out at the thought of her bright smile, her steadfast support, her friendship and kindness and all the many ways and reasons why he loves her, why he’s loved her since he was fourteen, to the exclusion of nearly everyone else. This physical act is purely carnal, of course, but his ever-romantic heart can’t help but infuse the fantasy with the love he longs to give her and receive in return.

He looks down at his hand wrapping around his erection, watching himself as he starts an immediate and very, very familiar rhythm. His eyes slip shut again and he allows himself to imagine not his fingertips dragging along his own sensitive skin, but instead a tongue and soft lips, his hand threaded through her hair as her head bobs up and down. He leans against the tiles and grips the washcloth bar as a sub-par substitute, relying on his imagination to make up the difference.

It might be embarrassing to be heard belting songs in the shower, even more so to be discovered carrying on a very one-sided conversation while sudsing up. It’s entirely different, however, to be caught in the act of coming all over the shower tile, especially considering his distinct lack of privacy in this house, even as he hovers at the edge of adulthood. That’s not to mention the mutterings of his kwami regarding disgusting human self-love rituals that he’d rather avoid. Therefore, he takes caution to remain at least somewhat close to silent as he quickens his pace. Biting his lip, he swallows back a groan.

He grasps the washcloth bar tightly, knuckles white against the porcelain. By now, his mind sees the slope of a water-slickened spine, and he holds her bent hips in his hands as he plunges inside her imagined heat. Thrusting hard against his own hand, he mimics the motion of his hips as he sees it in his imagination, as he thinks – _hopes_! – it must be like in real life to be with her this way.

It’s easy to transpose the sound of his partner’s panting breath as she runs across rooftops to the way her breath would catch in her throat as he finds just the spot inside to take her ever higher. Her pleasure, after all, would be paramount to his. Even in his fantasies, he tries to make sure of it.

It’s just as easy to imagine the way her body would feel under his bare fingertips, since he’s spent most of his teenage years holding her in one way or another, simply out of necessity. Though still as petite as ever, he knows his Lady hides strength and power under her supersuit. He’s felt her firm thigh muscles around his ribcage on a piggyback ride, been lifted and tossed effortlessly by her slim but sturdy arms. Their power is enhanced by the miraculous, yes, but he knows she must be just as muscular as he is after all these years of fighting in tandem.

Inexplicably, his mind jolts to the way Marinette’s legs felt - a surprising contrast of soft, strong and svelte - beneath his hands as he kept her secure on his shoulders during a game of chicken with Alya and Nino earlier in the day. They’d won, of course, fists meeting with a “bien joué” without thinking, and everyone had laughed. The frisson of familiarity he’d ignored at the time zings his nerves again. His rhythm falters and he pointedly focuses once more on his Lady, bare but for her spotted mask, and tries to reclaim the fantasy of loving her the way he’s always desired.

Eyes scrunched shut as the pleasure builds again, he imagines pulling her closer to him, one hand snaking around her hip to her center to help her along, the other pushing aside the curtain of her wet hair so he can kiss her shoulders, her neck, her earlobe with its ever-present spotted magical earring. He’s lost in the fantasy, in his partner, in his climb toward release.

It’s another shock then, when the waterfall of midnight hair in his mind’s eye no longer covers his partner’s imagined bare shoulder but a pink and white polka-dotted bikini top on the equally lithe frame of his very real friend, just as he saw her a few hours ago as she hoisted herself easily from the pool. His breath catches but his hand continues at a punishing pace, his body desperate for release. His fantasy shower partner turns to look at him over her shoulder, an expression of pure pleasure on her face and a kiss of blush across her daintily-freckled cheeks. Gone is the mental image of his always-masked Ladybug from years of dreams. 

Instead, Marinette’s familiar bright blue eyes meet his.

His mouth falls open, water spilling inside his lips from the shower spray, and his breath comes in hurried, irregular gasps as his climax surges over his senses in a series of crashing waves.

He’s still aware of his heart beating wildly in his chest when he opens his eyes and slackens his grip on the washcloth bar – and himself. Mind wiped of rational thought, he automatically rinses his hands and any trace of what he’s done from his body and the tile. After several deep breaths, he comes to his senses and, remembering the original purpose of this shower, reaches for the soap.

Mind racing along with his heart, he stares at the wall as he finishes his shower, only blinking when the tiles blur together. His nerves still tingle with satisfaction, and while his first real thought is one of rising panic and shame at what just happened, it’s swept away by the current of that earlier contented peace.

He turns off the water, grabs a towel, and dries off, glimpsing his reflection in the mirror as he prepares to leave the bathroom after putting on his boxers. His thoughts are a convoluted jumble of red and black blurred with pink and white, the warmth of friendship melting into the blaze of desire, but his reflected smile is gentle, his eyes soft. Marinette has always seemed to make him feel that way.

He looks back down at the countertop when a twinge of guilt threatens to crowd out those happy feelings. The teenage mind is a strange thing sometimes, and he’s well aware that his friend is beautiful; that was admittedly not the first time she’d made a similar appearance in his imagination. But it’s never happened that way. It feels a bit like a betrayal of his Lady.

Their hair is so similar, though, and those incredible ocean eyes are nearly identical. The constellation of freckles half-covered by her mask are just like those that dot Marinette’s nose. A blush rises to his cheeks as the mental image pans lower and lower still. The same curves, the same slim, muscular legs, the same…

His gaze shoots upward as he gasps, wide eyes meeting their reflection again.

“Holy shit,” he whispers to himself, before dashing to the closet to get dressed. 

Perhaps there are shared showers in their future, a recreation of that fantasy and a dozen others, along with the sweet domesticity of a shared life. He’s getting ahead of himself but can’t find the will to care, not when this is all so tantalizingly close.

He calls for his transformation just as he pulls a t-shirt over his head, his feet already carrying him toward the open window. His hair is still damp and untamed, a Chat Noir wildness in the perfectly imperfect blond halo. And that’s okay. There’s no time for styling, anyway. 

He has a pink-tinged, flower-filled terrace to visit, and a princess - a Lady? - to see.

No matter what happens, one thing is certain - if his hunch is right, he can never, ever admit how he came to that realization.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [chatonne-rousse](https://chatonne-rousse.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Come say hi!


End file.
